


turn the lights on (make it real loud)

by rayguntomyhead



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: All hurt no comfort, Angst, Dubious Consent, Fucked up people, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Unsafe Sex, basically summed up as, fucked up sex, i don't normally publish when I write shit like this but eh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayguntomyhead/pseuds/rayguntomyhead
Summary: It’s a restless dead wind, red-spark roman candles kind of night, and Wade sprawls flat on the grit-gravel paving making angels in the dust.





	turn the lights on (make it real loud)

**Author's Note:**

> unedited. unhappy. is what it is.

It’s a restless dead wind, red-spark roman candles kind of night, and Wade sprawls flat on the grit-gravel paving making angels in the dust. 

The glum yellowed flicker of the sodium-vapor light outside the warehouse really adds to the whole Human Centipede 2 setup, and really, what exactly was Nate going for here? There’s better ways of self-castigation than bunking up in the dingy warehouse from every serial killer movie ever, and Wade would know. 

Speaking of Grimdark Robocop, what time is it? Wade drags his wrist up and taps mournfully at the cheerful cartoon face. Only five minutes since the last time he checked, an hour since Nate’d wandered off in the first place. Maybe all the alternate universe experts at the X-House for Wayward Mutants were conveniently out of country, so sorry, no one to help fix their unfortunate little problem except their problem wasn’t really so little was he? 

Rather the opposite, Nathan Summers 2.0 is just as big and muscly and growly as the OG version, if slightly less made of awesome metal. _Wah, wahhhh_ , guess you can’t have everything.

He pushes himself up, slaps his palms together until the little pebbly bits plop off. What is their newest dimension hopper up to now? Hopefully finished washing of the blood of all those random goons he’d been slaughtering when Wade and Nate had found him on their Awesome Bros Outing. Not that Wade really cared. There was some long convoluted universe-hopping explanation that went on and on and _on_ and wasn’t a blood bath good for the complexion or something? 

Maybe he should go check. Yeah, Nate had told him to stay out of the warehouse and away from his evil twin until he got back blah blah blah, but maybe if Nate wanted him to stay away he should have taken him along, now shouldn’t he have? Instead of being all _sit, stay, be a good Deadpool._

And he’s _bored,_ okay, really really _really_ bored and maybe Stryfe – that’s such a stupid fucking name, okay, what’s his last name, Dyscord with a Y? – is bored too. Maybe they can grab a pizza, share a beer, do a little friendly sparring. Put on sign on the door that says _No Cables Allowed_ and see if _he_ likes it 

His crocs make nice slappy, floppy noises as he pads across the concrete, so he walks a little slower just to hear them echo. They make an even nicer noise against the vinyl paneling of the door, so he balances on one leg and knocks the other foot against it. No one answers of course, who answers on the first knock so maybe if he tries–

“Honey, I’m hoo-ome,” Wade jiggles the doorknob, blinks in surprise when it turns in his hand. Not that he couldn’t pick it, _duh,_ but left open like this it’s practically an invitation.

Stryfe’s sitting in the the one of the two chairs that still has a back (and Nate used to only have that one, but then Wade kept sitting in his lap because there was no other place to sit and Nate didn’t just keep dumping him off, he got a whole ‘ _nother_ chair for Wade to sit on) and _wow._ Supervillain pose much? 

“Can I get you a cat? Cause I feel like all you really need right now is a cat to pet evilly, maybe a Siamese, maybe a Persian, definitely a white one with judgmental eyes,” Wade spreads his hands, but Stryfe doesn’t do more than narrow his eyes, lean forward in his rickety dumpster-dived chair. “Not that you’re evil. At least not definitively. Probably. What’s a little killing between friends?”

Stryfe tilts his head, scrunches his face exactly like his counterpart does when Wade pops up unexpectedly and _awww_ , that’s adorable. Guess the resemblance is more than skin deep. 

“You’re Deadpool,” he says. “Cable’s little.. pet.” 

Um, _excuse you_? Wade’s mouth drops open and he infuses his gasp with all appropriate affront.

“Excuse you, I don’t let anybody put me in a cage,” he flicks his thumb at his grip of his pistol, wanders closer to his time traveler's twin. 

“And it’s Wilson,” he adds in his deepest rumble, ”Wade Wilson.”

Stryfe pushes himself to his feet and oo, yup, someone’s definitely been making pilgrimage to the palace of steel. Guess every version of Nate comes compete with the Buff Daddy package. Although this one’s taste in fashion is even worse than Hipster Jesus, with his shiny bodysuit and thigh-and-shoulder spikes and that godforsaken cape _._ Just asking to get sucked into a propellor or under a wheel or some other contraption that ends with a messy death.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” Stryfe lifts his chin, stares at Wade like he’s trying to x-ray vision straight through his brain. “Aren’t you supposed to be with my counterpart, finding me a way home?”

Aw, isn’t that sweet.

“Aw, yeah,” Wade coos, “Talk condescending to me, baby.” 

He bounces on his toes, shakes out his hands to get into the flow of it all. 

“Also that’s a nope-a-roo on the finding you a way home Donnie Darko. Apparently I’m too much of a,” and Wade inserts his best exaggerated air quotes, “ _provocateur,_ to be brought along. Pretty rich coming from an antihero know-it-all from the future.”

Stryfe hums, one of those low gravely Nate-hums and it’s not _fair,_ how come there gets to be two of them to stand there and be sexy cock teases in his general direction.

“Of course, I’m the _real_ antihero of this operation,” because the witty banter is great and all, but there’s jitterbugs prickling in his fucked-up skin, and it’s time to move this thing along. “Unless you wanna fight me for the title, show me what a big bad you are.”

That’s makes Stryfe growl, deep and grumbly, flip his cape out dramatically and yup, yup, _heeeeeeere’s Johnny._

“C’mon big guy,” Wade breathes, giddy, “Time to float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” because goddamn if he can’t think of anything _else_ those stupid spikes on his thighs would be good for. At least tell him they’re coated in poison, that would be interesting, Wade hasn’t had a good poisoning in ages. 

He bounces on his toes a few more times, and then when Stryfe doesn’t do anything more than smolder pensively at him, flings himself forward ‘cause it’s _time to get this party staaaarted._ Except Stryfe does some kind of twisty side-steppy kind of maneuver and goes in and–

Dammit. That was awfully fast for the first wall-pinning. Wade should probably pause for a moment of admiration before he gets on with the eviscerating. Time to go for the big guns… wait. 

Wait wait wait, _fuck,_ he can’t move a muscle, pinned immobile, trapped, he can’t _move_ and the room contracts and shadows of hands slide over him _nofucknononono_ okay this is Na– Stryfe, just Stryfe, and Wade sucks in a breath, another, faster, and another. Tries to convulses against the invisible hands, but all that happens is his muscles contract and he doesn’t budge an inch.

“What– Uncle Steve?”Wade tries to twitch a pinkie, and fails. “Bad touch, bad touch, okay.”

Stryfe tilts his head mildly, “Your Cable hasn’t told you about this, has he? His telekinesis?” 

…his _what_ now? 

“That super relevant fact of him being a _mutant_ cyborg? Must have slipped his mind. You know how men get in their old age, always forgetting pertinent information,” and that’s… okay, so him and Cable might not be bosom buddies but Wade would like to think that being able to _move things with your fucking mind_ is one of those things you might mention, over coffee or breakfast or a lawn full of dead perverts.

“He hasn’t, has he?” Stryfe’s mouth pulls up at one corner. “It seems there’s a lot of things your Cable doesn’t share with you.”

“He’s an international man of mystery,” Wade says. “I didn’t audition for to be the Vanessa Kensington in this franchise, but the powers that be, what can you do.”

That makes Stryfe chuckle, and he’s so like Nate it aches _._ The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way he purses in his lips. The way he studies Wade like he’s peeling the skin of him back slowly and can’t quite grasp what he finds. 

“I wonder,” Strife muses, almost under his breath, and Wade doesn’t like that look on his face, that’s not a good look.

“About the theory of everything? The meaning of life?” Wade says giddy, and something in Stryfe _shifts_ , wrenches into Wade and locks in his bones and this is it, _this is now, this is what I've been talking about._

“Did you come to me like this,” Stryfe says gently, still holds him there inexorable against the wall, “because your Cable doesn’t want you? Oh, Wade.” 

_Fuck–_ that’s not– what in the actual– 

“Hey, pretty sure he’d punch you in the face if you called him ‘mine’ to his,” Wade says faint, “He’s an strong, independent cyborg who don’t need no man.” 

Stryfe ignores him. 

“He won’t hurt you you the way you need,” he murmurs, “the way you’re practically begging for.” 

His fingers trail along the seam of Wade’s mask, tap against his throat. 

“Such a telling color. But you have ten seconds to take it off, because when I make you bleed, Wade… I want to see it.”

“Did you read too much Fifty Shade as a teenager and it gave you a complex?” Wade’s mouth keeps running but his hands are moving without his say-so, sliding up to the edge his mask.

“Take it off, that’s it Wade,” Stryfe reaches for him, covers his hands with his own, peel up spandex to bare the ugly shifting morass of scars underneath. It falls away and Wade squirms, and why is there so much lighting in here? It’s supposed to be a seedy hideout. But Stryfe doesn’t seem put off, eases off all the way on his telekinetic grip and turns Wade, pulls him close chest to back. Slides fabric down to bunch around his waist. 

His skin is so soft, cooler than Wade’s overactive metabolism makes his. Stryfe sways him, the smallest bit, side to side, molds their bodies together. There’s the _snick_ of steel against steel, the shift and bulge of Stryfe’s muscles, the white-cold touch of a blade against Wade’s chest.

“I like knives, don’t you?” Stryfe says, tilts his head and twists that ridiculous pig-sticker of a knife between his fingers. “You can appreciate a good blade, at least.”

Urgh. Wade squirms against the invisible hands holding him near immobile, pushes his lip out and grumbles, “Leave Bea and Arthur out of this.”

Stryfes chuckles, and does Evil Future Overlord ever do anything _not_ condescendingly? 

“I know my counterpoint has a particular affinity for his oversized guns, but there’s something… personal about knives,” Stryfe continues his movie villain monologue as pins Wade tighter against him.

“Although it is disappointing,” he sets his knife delicately in the notch of Wade’s collarbone, trails it down and taps the point over his sternum. “Can’t keep a single mark I give, can you?”

Can’t–

Wade flinches. 

“Don’t worry though,” a flick-twist of Stryfe’s wrist, and steel tip slips into skin, “I’m a understanding man.”

The knife digs in, slices down and opens Wade up, gently, sweetly. Stryfe never pauses, holds him there with his mind and carves into Wade over and over.

Swish-curve-right, swish-curve-left.

Slash-side, slash-down.

On and on and over and over on and on, and he’s writing his name, isn’t he, marking it into Wade with careful strokes. Burning, rolling, sweet-hot stinging over Wade in waves, trying to pull him under with it.

“You take it so well, Wade,” one last time the blade digs in, slices, lifts. Stryfe pulls their bodies tighter together, slides his hand over the marks he’s made. “And your Cable never thought to give it to you.” 

The room tilts, floats in and out when Wade tries to pry his eyes open, because what, what is he saying about Nate?

“But then, he doesn’t think much of anything at all about you, does he,” Stryfe rubs his fingers into the slowly knitting stripes of skin, digs his nails in to pull apart the edges. “Just an annoying buffoon, that can’t take a hint.”

_No._

Wade jerks, head spinning like a drunken dreidel and it’s not really like that, is it? Nate doesn’t _mean_ it when he says all those things– it’s not _like_ that–

“He’ll never give you what you need,” Stryfe cups his throat and slowly drags his hand up, forces Wade’s neck into an gasping, aching arch. “You know that, don’t you?”

The hand on his throat presses just enough Wade wheezes when he sucks in air, and he reaches for words but he can’t catch them. Just hangs there, caught. 

“I see you,” Stryfe slides his other hand down Wade’s side, his hip, and _oh oh_ wraps his hand around Wade’s cock fuck so _good_. “Everything you're trying to hide from me with your antics, your dramatics,” and what kind of bullshit is that, clearly this version is just as delusional as his counterpart, Wade's just here to have a good time okay, someone's taken their psych 101 class waaaaay too seriously.

Stryfe slowly starts to slide his hand up and down, pressing just the smallest bit more on the curve of Wade’s throat, “He might ignore you, but I see you. All that need inside.”

No, no, no, Nate might not like him but he doesn’t, Stryfe’s just– it’s not– and Wade tries to shake his head, make him stop _saying things_ but he can’t do more than spasm and it feels so fucking good. Na–Stryfe wrapped around him, cradling him close, _touching_ him.

“Just relax,” Stryfe hums, strips him faster, the bastard. “Let me make you feel good. Doesn’t this feel good, Wade?” 

Fuck. It _does_ , it feels so good, Stryfe’s hands on his neck, his cock, rough silver hair rubbing into Wade’s back every time he shifts. 

“Remember this,” he nips at Wade’s cauliflower crinkle of an ear. “Tomorrow, when you touch yourself, alone. Remember how I made you feel.”

There’s blood on Stryfe’s hand, Wade’s blood, slicking Wade’s dick as he’s jacked faster and faster. Stryfe squeezes so hard it almost hurts, and Wade wheezes, keens, bucks hard in his grip. 

“Look at you,” Stryfe hisses, and Wade’s so close, so close, “give it up so easy for me,” and fuck Wade _does,_ and he _breaks_ , shakes apart, hanging in Stryfe’s arms until the world goes grey.

Wade doesn't know how long it is, before he comes back to himself. Long enough the sweat has turned cold, draft playing across his skin until it shivers into goosebumps.

“That’s it,” Stryfe doesn’t soothe him, stroke him. Just slides his hand up from Wade’s throat, feeds his fingers into Wade’s mouth, crams them deep still bitter with streaks of Wade’s come. Lets him weakly suckle them clean, pins their hips tighter together and grinds his cock into Wade’s ass and oh, selfish, _selfish,_ Wade should do something about that, and he arches his hips back.

“That’s right. Think it’s time you did something for me, Wade,” Stryfe leans forward, presses Wade’s hands against the wall. “Think I want to fuck you now.” 

_Ohhhhh yes_ , Wade wants that, wants something inside him, so he wobbles his legs wider and clenches down helplessly on nothing. 

“Gonna let me work into you slow, feel your body giving in,” Stryfe fits his hands above the jut of Wade’s hips, “Gonna give it to you so good, Wade.” 

Click, the slurp of lube, the sound of skin on skin as Stryfe slicks himself up. 

Leans in, rubs the head of his cock against Wade’s hole, digs his hand into the Wade’s hips and pulls him slowly onto his cock. Fits his head into the crook of Wade’s neck and cradles him close. 

“So tight,” Stryfe growls, mouth at crook of his neck, “guess we found something that mutation of yours is good for after all.”

He slides in deep, pries Wade open, doesn’t give him a moment to think shifts his hips, adjusts his angle and _shitfuckyes right there._ Grinds into Wade so sweet, pulls out and fucks in again, doesn’t stop even as Wade mewls and convulses helplessly around him,so much, so _much._

But Stryfe just digs his fingers into Wade’s skin until it blossom plum-dark bruises, makes him take it. Fucks in hard over, and over, and over, sliding hard against the slick-soft insides of him, dragging against every oversensitive nerve until Wade can’t move, can’t breath, trembling and twitching and limp in Stryfe’s hold. 

The room stretches liquid and taffy-sweet around them, hazy and pulsing. Stryfe’s speeding, rutting in faster and faster until finally he judders forward deep into Wade’s guts and growls and he must have come, that must mean he’s come fuck _please_. 

Wade’s held him there, their bodies molded together like some gross parody of a ancient sculpture. Held there until Stryfe finally hums, long and content, pulls out to let Wade collapse to the floor and this is it, _this is it, I can say, this is it,_ Wade would move if he could do more than make his legs twitch. 

Buckles clink, belts and metal, the shuffle of boots on concrete. A hand grabs his nape, and the room feathers into ink-blot black when Stryfe pulls Wade to his feet, and he wobbles a little _wheeeee_ just to feel Stryfe’s hands lock him in place, move him around like a doll and shove him back into his clothes. 

That’s so nice, nice Stryfe, except where’s his mask? Wade fumbles for the limp bundle of red dangling from Stryfe’s fingers, but he won’t give it back the meanie. Wade ekes out a protesting sort of noise, because what’s the point of getting dressed if he’s gonna send him out half naked anyways but Stryfe just squeezes Wade’s hand and puts it back by his side. 

The mask gets tucked carefully in Wade’s pocket, and then Stryfe cups his cheek, digs his nails in until they divot bright lines of pain in Wade’s scarred warp of a skin. Pulls him forward, carefully, gently, until their foreheads touch.

“Go back to him now, Wade,” he croons, drags his thumb across Wade’s lips, “stare into his face with my come dripping down your legs, and think of everything he’ll never give you.”

Then Stryfe’s hand is on his elbow, guiding Wade to the door as the room contracts and melts around him like a funhouse mirror ‘cause tonight’s just a great big carnival of a ride, huh? Wade giggles, licks something wet and salty off his lip to stop it dripping down his chin as Stryfe sends him stumbling out the entrance and back into a smog-dark July night oblivion. 

“Go on, now,” Stryfe bares his teeth in a wild Green Goblin grimace of a grin. “Go home, Wade,” and he slides the door shut.

Wade’s chest aches, burns, and he collapses to his knees, to the ground because _home is where the heart is, lost my heart when I found you._ Gasps lungfuls of dead grey dust as he laughs, digs up fistfuls of gravel and _fuck–––_


End file.
